Of Devils and Angels
by enigma013
Summary: Connor's problems just got bigger. While intercepting a thief in NY, he learns his interest in this girl may not be strictly busness related. Alessa, an orphan, is trying to protect those she loves whilst she is sucked deeper into the war between assassins and templars. Connor and Alessa rarely agree on anything. And then Thomas Hickey is thrown into the mix. CONNOR/OC/THOMAS
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed. I simply crush on each and every character they present to the world.**

**Author's Note: So… I had to write this. Honestly, I wrote this some time ago, but I didn't want to give it much attention because of my fic ****The One That Got Away**** for the Vampire Diaries… It is very important that I finish that story and continue on to a sequel. So let's consider this story to be more of a hobby, considering I already have several chapters written. However, if I do get a substantial amount of people who enjoy this, I will try to update regularly. **

**Oh! Almost forgot. This is a Connor/OC story, but as I played AC3, I took a liking to a certain Thomas Hickey as well… What can I say—it must be encoded in a woman's DNA to love parring bad and good guys against each other for a woman. So while this is a CONNOR story, it is also a THOMAS story, for there was a scandalously amount of Thomas fics (Um, zero, if you're wondering), and I simply have to write him. This first chapter is a little more rushed than my typical introductory speed, but you know what? I want to get to the good stuff sooner rather than later. **

**I am out of metaphorical breath. Read on, wonderful people, and don't forget to review, for my vain heart desires it.**

* * *

**One**

It was the same in every tavern. The air reeked of alcohol and urine, the walls and floors were coated in dirt and grime, men stumbled about on drunken feet, and whores circled around the patrons like predators. Connor noted this about his surroundings with a crinkled nose. He wondered what colonists found so alluring about these places.

Ambient chatter surrounded him. It was louder than usual; likely because Sabbath was the following day and it was time to for the laborers and business men to get their final indulgences before they could repent for another week of sin. Connor tried to opt out of such bleak thoughts, but they were rampant as of late. Either the weight of the Templar plot was finally beginning to suffocate him, or his unending anger was shortening his patience, his compassion. Perhaps both.

"Connor," a familiar voice called, loud enough to puncture the surrounding noise. "Over here."

The number of bodies in the tavern was large; Connor had to slip through a crowd to locate his contact, who sat in the far corner and nursed a large draft of beer. Trouble plagued his eyes, though, and Connor knew this was no lighthearted meeting.

"Frederico," Connor greeted, though bypassed the pleasantries. "Your message was urgent."

Frederico, a slight man of modest upbringing, nodded solemnly and gestured for Connor to sit. He was unshaved and rather mussed compared to his typical level of cleanliness. He leaned his elbows on the table and glanced around the tavern with bleak paranoia.

Connor followed the uneasy man's gaze. "Is it safe to speak here?"

"It is loud enough, yes," Frederico answered, though with obvious hesitation. "I would not have pulled you away from your mission were it not important." Connor cocked an eyebrow, urging Frederico to continue. "You may have heard tales of the thief currently disturbing the district."

"I have heard things here and there," Connor concurred. "Not much of the thief, himself, but rather his work."

Frederico nodded fervently. "Yes—yes. No one has even laid eyes on him, but he is there."

"This is what you must speak to me about?"

A heavy weight settled on Frederico's shoulders. He couldn't meet the assassin's eyes. "Nearly a month ago, you asked me to retrieve a map for you." The unsettled man drew out a slip of fabric from his jacket with a drawing on it—the very one Connor had given him. "Which would lead to this dagger with the strange symbols carved into its hilt."

Connor could feel a coil of tension knot in his stomach. He pressed his lips together. "Yes. My father has been looking for it, and I wish to know why."

Frederico still did not look up. "I—well—I had it. I had it in my possession three days ago. I drafted a letter to you to tell you this, but when I went to send it the next day—"Frederico frowned deeply. "It was gone. The map was gone."

Connor absorbed this a moment. "And you believe this thief took it."

"It seems to be the only rational explanation. Even my watchdog didn't hear a sound."

Rubbing his finger over his chin, Connor nodded. He stood. "Then I suppose I should track this thief down."

* * *

Clouds loomed over New York when Connor rode in on horseback. An hour had passed since; now rain drizzled from the skies, sliding through the humid, thick air of summer.

Connor drew his hood over his head. Frederico gave him several leads regarding the whereabouts of this thief. Considering that Connor didn't know what this dagger was for, though knew his father was desperately after it, the young assassin was anxious to find it.

After fetching a horse, Connor made his way through the city. The sky continued to open up until the rain sleeted to the ground in angry, lashing torrents. The droplets of water were heavy; they splattered against Connor's robes in a painful rhythm.

Frederico instructed him to ride into the rich district. A wall of stone had been erected some time ago, marking the exact place in which the streets ran from poor to wealthy. There was a distinct different in the houses beyond this wall, as well. Instead of poorly constructed homes, packed and overcrowded, there were large and cleanly kept buildings made from fine wood, stone, or brick. The people here were dressed more immaculately. Some may have even felt a shift in the air. But to Connor, it was all the same.

According to Frederico, the thief tended to house himself in a recently evicted home in this district. It would make Connor's job somewhat more difficult, considering the political tensions and growing taxes were taking their toll on even the wealthy. There were a number of vacated homes within eyesight.

By the time Connor was searching the fifth empty home, the rain had stopped and an eerie quiet had settled over the night. The occasional animal would break the silence, but even the beasts seemed calm and contained.

Irritation was making its way into Connor's heart. Irritation and weariness. It was just the previous day he had finally assassinated William Johnson. With every drop of blood on his hands, he grew closer and closer to his ultimate goal: obliterate the Templar order. This thief was a setback, however. He had the dagger—something the Templars wanted, and in turn, Connor wanted.

It was on his way to the next house when he realized he was being watched. The notion had struck him once or twice before as his eyes roved over his dark surroundings, seeking out a clue. He had shaken it off, deducing it to some night prowling children of the sort. But the notion crept upon him again, so strongly this time that he paused mid-step and glanced around.

When he glanced over his shoulder, back to the second story window of the house he had just searched, he met the eyes of a cloaked thief.

Thief, he determined, by the way he stood _on_ the windowsill, half out, as if ready for an escape. They locked eyes and another moment passed before either man moved. Connor bolted first. He swiveled around so fast that a gasp escaped his lungs.

The thief, jolted, scrambled onto the roof of the home.

The chase was long. Connor took off at an alarming speed, racing past late-night workers and those returning home from taverns. He followed the thief on the ground for several moments, shifting between alleyways and thoroughfares, before he jumped from crate to crate, to lamp to lamp, and finally swung himself up onto the rooftops as well.

It was not the Assassin's first chase, but it was the first time he saw his target slip further away from him, however little by little the advantage was. The tide turned in Connor's favor when they came to a gap in the row-houses; several trees acted as a trail to the other side, but the thief was clumsy. He slipped once; his hand reached out, with blind desperation, hoping to snap a branch as gravity pulled him down. Alas, he landed on the ground with a terrible _snap_.

If Connor thought this would deter the man, he was very wrong. Connor was barreling across the branches as the man on the ground pulled himself up and flew back into a dead sprint, ducking between shops, stands, and the occasional person. Connor followed by rooftop, continually gaining the upper hand, until there came the chance for him to leap down and pin his thief to the ground.

The impact was not as solid as Connor had expected. The man's body crumpled easily, almost frailly, to the dirty floor of the road. Connor's hands sought out the man's wrists; he gripped them tightly and trapped the thief beneath him, fighting the rest of his squirming, though oddly weak, body with his lower half.

The man squirmed and gasped and struggled beneath Connor, throwing out every limb as if to strike the Assassin and force him to falter. It was only when the man threw his head to the side once more that his hood fell back, exposing his features to the moonlight.

This was not a man.

Dark, shiny hair fell to the ground like a waterfall. Small, feminine features were contorted in pain and anger. Eyes opened, blue and bright, hostile and biting, as they fell on Connor.

Then the children began screaming.

Connor wasn't entirely sure where they emerged from, but three very small voices began shouting and screeching from behind him—from all around him, it seemed.

"Lessa! Oh God, Lessa! You get off of her, you hear! Get _off!"_

Two pairs of hands landed on Connor, yanking him backwards. Their strength was diminutive and rather insignificant compared to his, but his shocked state allowed him to sag backwards.

A little girl flew towards the woman on the ground, crawling into her lap and cupping her face in her hands as she shot Connor a murderous look.

"Lessa," the little girl spoke, fearful. "Lessa, are you hurt? Do you hurt?"

"No, no," the woman crooned, holding the girl to her chest protectively. The croon contrasted her features starkly; her eyes bored right into Connor's as if daring him to move, to even _touch_ one of the children. Connor didn't even realize the little boy beside him was still clawing at his arms. "Hush, Jeremy. Hush," the woman quieted him sharply. "You'll wake the guard if you haven't already."

There was a very heavy pause, during which Connor and the woman stared at each other, and the children tugged at their caregiver.

It was then Connor's predicaments changed entirely. He just didn't know it yet.

* * *

Connor had learned many things from Achilles over the years—training his mind and body, controlling his Eagle sense and his emotions, learning tactics. He had also learned through observation (and many, many scolding's) how to act appropriately in the colonists' society.

So he had to ask himself: would one of their people attack another? A _woman_ with children at her feet?

A barbarian, Achilles would tell him. A murderer. A fiend.

He had the overwhelming sense that he did something very wrong. And yet, his instincts—his nature—quietly refuted inside him.

When did he become so complex?

"It was just a misunderstanding," the woman was reassuring the children, all the while glaring at Connor and encouraging him to agree.

He did not know why, but he did. "Yes," Connor spoke, having found his voice. "A misunderstanding."

"But Alessa—"the little girl tried to protest, but the woman—Alessa—wouldn't have it.

"But nothing. Go back inside, Charlotte. Take your brothers with you. I'll sort this out."

Charlotte pouted, but did not object further. She gathered her skirts and followed her brothers back to the small town house they apparently emerged from.

Alessa and Connor stared in silence once more. Both were still on the dusty ground, their arms splayed out behind them. Alessa's eyes shifted down to herself; the slightest of blushes colored her cheeks as she pulled herself into a more ladylike position before standing.

"I was warned about you," Alessa finally said.

Connor shuffled to his feet, as well. He was a mass of a man; all broad shoulders, sinewy muscle, lithe movement. He towered over her by at least half a foot.

Though he was learning proper manners and the like, he wouldn't allow what was considered suitable conduct to interfere with his true mission: "You have something of mine."

Alessa was taken aback. Her fingers curled up to her palms, a defensive reaction, and her feet were firmly planted to the ground. "I can assure you I have clue what you're speaking of."

"The map. You stole it from a contact of mine."

"_Stole_ is a harsh word…"

"Yet proper, all the same."

Alessa rolled her eyes. "Perhaps. But I'm afraid I can't help you." She started past Connor, towards the town house as if to simply brush him off, but Connor stepped in her path. All sense of wrongness and properness left him. He wanted the dagger, so he needed the map.

"I believe you can."

"Listen," Alessa said, suddenly very impatient. "This really is not the time—"

Connor interrupted her. "Who hired you?" It was suddenly very clear to him. She had been warned of him. She stole the item he wanted to procure. She returned to the very place his contact told him she'd be.

This was a trap.

The realization came moments too late. He stared into the girl's eyes, very aware of his foolishness, his _brashness_. Then her eyes flicked behind him, and he knew.

He immediately sought out his tomahawk and shifted to swing it, but he was too slow. Before he could get any momentum behind his swing, a very sharp sting of pain erupted at his brow, and he fell, weightlessly, into a black abyss.

* * *

**Alessa is not, in fact, a mother. I thought I should mention this, should it turn some people away. **

**Review. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed**

**A/N: Some people liked it, so I figured I might as well post the second chapter.**

* * *

**Two **

There was a touch of dankness in the air that suggested Connor was much closer to the New York harbor than he had previously been. He could hear wind howling about somewhere, whipping around the corners of a building—a building he was in, considering the harsh element did not touch him.

His head ached terribly, and there was a particularly bothersome _crick _in his neck as he lifted his head off his chest and tried to sit upright.

He couldn't—he was bound by his hands and feet, restrained to a hard and unforgiving wooden chair. A harsh sting throbbed behind his eyes; he opened them to find himself in a dark and sullied room. A warehouse of sorts, by the looks of it.

His hands clenched into fists, hard, as he remembered that girl—the very one who had guided him into a trap and even had the gall to force his hesitation with those children.

_Foolish_, he thought to himself. What would Achilles say?

"Mr. Kenway."

A deep, lilting voice. One he wouldn't forget because it was the same one that echoed in all his nightmares, that stirred hate and disgust and _rage_ in his chest.

Charles Lee.

Connor blinked to filter his vision, eyes immediately landing on the infamous templar, the object of his destruction and murder. All at once, a storm of fury came over him, and he wished his hands free so he might strangle the templar and watch the man's life slowly drain from his eyes.

Alas, he was bound and powerless. His hidden blades had been removed and set on a table before him, accompanied by the other weapons he had been stripped of. Still, his upper half lunged forward, threatening to tip him off balance and send him to the floor.

Charles Lee gave Connor a wicked smirk. "So it's true, I see. Haytham has a bastard son—and an Assassin, at that. I suppose I cannot really judge him, though I find myself surprised, nonetheless. I would have thought you'd burn along with your village."

Connor spat a number of his native curses at Charles, his lips pulled into an animalistic snarl.

Charles Lee just laughed. "I hate to cut this short, boy, but I have much more important business to attend to. I simply wanted to see you for myself before you were executed."

"You will die," Connor swore, watching with panic and murderous fervor as Charles gathered his things to leave. "You will die by my hand and I will relish your blood as it rushes from your veins."

"A bold endeavor," Charles merely commented. "But very unlikely, considering these will be your very last moments to live. Don't waste your breath, savage." He gave Connor one last smirk before exiting through a side entrance, leaving the door swinging shut in his wake.

The exchange had been so brief and fleeting that Connor was left to contain a flurry of emotions. It was only then, as Connor's rage was building and building, that he noticed there were others in the room. Thugs, likely. They were dressed in rags and had a certain gleam in their eyes that Connor associated with the desperate folk of New York.

"Well, well," one said, his dirty blonde hair pulled into a taut ponytail. There was a pistol in his hand, hanging carelessly from his fingertips, as if to suggest murder was a common thing for him. "Boss says to make it quick so's not to give you no time to work your way outta this." He grinned, a rotten, yellow grin. "S'pose I shou'd jus' get it over with."

He raised the pistol. The other thugs watched, a hunger for a show in their eyes, and disappointment that they couldn't satisfy it. But none objected, and Connor found himself meeting the deadly gaze of a gun.

It didn't matter that he had untied his hands. It didn't matter that he was prepared to shove the gun aside and slaughter the thugs. It didn't matter because, before any of that could happen, the side entrance swung open and the girl-thief stepped through.

As if spurred by a female presence, the thugs' eyes grew hungrier. "Wot?" the one with the pistol said, a grin plastered to his face. "Come to watch, darlin'?"

"No," Alessa said coolly. "Mister Lee asked if I would retrieve the assassin's weapons. I assume he wants a souvenir."

The words reached the thugs' ears, but it was clear they had other thoughts on their minds. How quickly their attention could shift, Connor thought.

It was to his advantage. He dropped the rope that had bound his hands and lunged forward. His fingers wrapped around the pistol and shoved it aside. Though his legs were still bound to the chair, he could move freely enough to disarm the thug, strike his pressure point, and render him unconscious. He fired the single round he was allowed off at another thug advancing towards him, and used the hilt of the gun to swing at the next.

They were all on the floor, dead or bleeding, within seconds. Connor stood a moment, still strapped awkwardly to the chair, as his eyes fell on Alessa.

Alessa blinked. She reached, very slowly, into her waistcoat and withdrew a pistol of her own, pinching it between two fingers and holding it outright in a peaceful gesture.

"I guess I won't be needing this, after all."

Connor just watched her, eyes filled with bloodlust. "You lured me here on purpose."

"And I came to right my wrong," Alessa said. "I did not realize what his intentions were for you."

"His? Charles Lee, you mean?"

"Yes."

Connor eyed her spitefully. "I'll spare your life," he said evenly. "So long as you give me the information I require."

"Elsewhere," Alessa replied, glancing back towards the doorway. "Lee has this building under guard. It's dangerous to linger here."

* * *

Connor followed the girl from alley to alley, mindful to keep his eyes on her at all times. She was deceiving. Her girlish, smallish looks had made him pause, before. But she was far from the weak stereotype of a woman. She was a manipulator, and he would see to it that he was in control.

"If you lead me into another trap, I will not be as kind to show you mercy," he had warned her before leaving the warehouse.

She had replied with a guilty look that he was almost foolish enough to think sincere. "I realized my mistake the first time."

Now he trailed behind her, careful to keep his face hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. His weapons, restrapped in their respective places, gave him comfort with every step. He would not be so foolish this time, but he needed information. Achilles would not appreciate sending the young assassin off only to receive the poorest of news—as he had just been inducted into the Brotherhood, and he was meant to be more successful. He was not meant to be overcome by a girl and her children, only to be led to the second-in-command himself.

The pair soon found themselves on the same thoroughfare they had been at the day before. The scuff-marks even remained in the dirt where Connor had pinned Alessa to the ground just outside of her townhouse.

She led him to the steps of the home. A nervous look flitted over her face, but it was brushed away as she pushed on the doorknob.

"'Lessa," a familiar, small voice called almost immediately. "Jeremy's stolen my doll again. Make him give it back!"

Alessa closed the door behind Connor. "Jeremy, be nice to your sister."

"But she doesn't have to be nice to me? Bloody women," Jeremy, a boy of slight build and short stature, cursed. He had a tinge of a cockney accent, mixed in with his flat English. Connor guessed he was perhaps ten or eleven, which meant that Alessa was far too young to be his mother. His sister, then. These were not, in fact, her children.

"And who's this?" Jeremy's eyes fell on Connor. The boy puffed his chest out; it would have been amusing to Connor under other circumstances. "Lessa, is this the boy who gave you trouble yesterday?"

Alessa was straight-faced. "Yes, Jer. Would you mind getting rid of him for me?"

Connor's eyebrows came together before he realized she wasn't serious. He glanced back at the boy, who had yet to have the same realization.

Jeremy clenched his small hands into fists and sized Connor up. "If you bother my sister, then you and I have a problem, you see."

Connor still did not find it amusing. Alessa rolled her eyes at the young boy before ushering the children out, assuring them that it was simply a friendly meeting and that dinner would be prepared soon after.

"I'm afraid we haven't many other options than to speak here. I prefer not to leave them alone too long." Connor watched as Alessa moved lithely—soundlessly—over to the stovetop and put a kettle on. "Tea?"

Tea from the Crown's homeland? Connor shook his head. This girl had yet to impress upon him that she was a good citizen and it was all a misunderstanding.

He rested his elbows on the table in front of him, careful to be expressionless. "Charles Lee hired you."

"Yes," Alessa answered simply.

"To retrieve a map."

Alessa glanced up at him. "You say you need information, but you seem to have all of it."

"Bits and pieces. Where is Charles Lee now?"

Alessa gave a shrug. "I'm hardly in a position to know that."

"Then what kind do you know?"

"What he tells me."

Connor made an impatient noise deep in his throat. "Which is?"

"What he wants, where I can get it from, and when he needs it." There seemed to be some underlying emotion in the girl's words as she said this. Shame? Guilt?

The assassin decidedly ignored it. He templed his fingers and gave her a hard look. "So you've worked for him before."

"Do not look at me that way," she hissed, immediately becoming defensive. "You've seen my siblings—I am all they have. I do what I must in order to put food in their stomachs and a roof over their head."

"And yet you don't even own this house," Connor accused harshly. "You should seek honest work, not sink to criminal activities. What does that teach them?"

Alessa stood, finally, her stool screeching out from under her. Her eyes, a curious slate blue, were burning in anger. "You do not get to judge me. You have not lived my life nor seen the things I've seen. Careful about your next words, Assassin, or you will get no information at all."

Connor gritted his teeth together. "You are not in the position to make threats."

"Are you sure about that? I don't see you murdering a woman whose brothers and sisters are in the next room over. That's not what I've heard about you."

The native was quickly losing his patience. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed sharply, wishing desperately to control his temper. Who did this girl think she was, luring him into a trap like she did? But she had a point: he wouldn't kill her. He had no threats to make.

"You said you have worked with Lee before," Connor decided a change in subject was best. "How would he get in contact with you?"

Alessa, still fuming, tried to quell her own temper as well. She fetched the kettle and poured some tea before returning to her seat. "He has many messengers and carriers. He'll send one here to New York in search of me."

"You have never met Lee personally?"

"Only once. He caught me stealing from a man who had rented a room next to him in an inn. He was impressed, I think." Alessa, too, set her elbows on the table and set her jaw. Connor sensed she was about to say something he would not find pleasant.

"Before we continue, I'd like to try to bargain with you."

The assassin raised his eyebrows. "Oh?" It was a rather sardonic _oh_, and hardly one of interest. Alessa, however, was not deterred.

"Yes. You made a point, just a moment ago, that I am not setting the right example for my siblings." She was very somber, even ashamed. "I have thought about it before, myself, and you're quite right. So I'd like to make a deal."

Connor said nothing, but simply gave her a prompting look. He was curious; however, his thoughts were racing towards Lee, whom he wanted to locate sooner rather than later, and how he might advance his mission.

"I have heard rumors about a sanctuary you live in. Take my siblings there, allow them to live in safety, and I will help you with your task."

For a moment, Connor did not register the girl-thief's words. They slipped past him momentarily; when they came crashing back into his mind, he stopped breathing.

"No," he said without hesitation. "The idea is absurd—I will not put people who depend on me at risk."

Alessa did not frown. There was a glint to her eye that suggested she knew something he didn't. "I don't pose a risk. Think about it—you would have access to information you never dreamed of getting. I could be your spy."

And sadly, her idea was not a terrible one. Almost instantly, the assassin's head was swimming with possibilities. This girl already worked for the templars. She had access to them and was not looked upon in suspicion. His hatred for Lee burned brighter than all else; he wished to end the man's life, to cut it short by the tip of his own blade. Achilles forbade him from pursuing the assassination anytime soon, but Connor would need ways to keep track of the Templar.

An insider. Yes—an insider that could feed him information.

But was the risk worth it?

"I will consider this," Connor said slowly, almost disbelieving the words that passed his lips. "But first, you must tell me all you know about Lee. If your information is valuable, then we can discuss an arrangement."

Alessa smiled, and he realized that she _had_ known something he didn't.


End file.
